


first name basis

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 12:11:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19131778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: The story of the first time Endeavour called him Peter.





	first name basis

**Author's Note:**

> shrugs idk man? i saw a prompt and i thought hey yeh i want jaks beaten up in an alleyway and then it turned kinda cute so??? yeah?? i guess? idk man at this point im just writing and making yall suffer through it Enjoy!!
> 
> set sometime before aracdia, just bc i know he calls jakes peter then, and also bc i dont want jakes to be gone yet lol 
> 
> could be pre-slash if you want?

Somewhere between the station and the late night newsagents, Peter Jakes found himself being tailed. Footsteps behind him, two sets, mirrored his every move. He tried for a moment to tell himself he was being paranoid, that he was on edge because the last case they’d closed today had been a string of muggings on dark corners. 

Deciding to test his theory, he took a sharp left, taking the slightly longer route to the newsagents on the street two roads over. It’s not his usual walk, but he knows well enough where the street-lamps are, so he’s not too worried. Well he wasn’t, until a third set of footsteps joined the others. He decided to just ignore it, until one of them calls out.

“Oi, detective!” His feet stutter to a stop without him meaning to. He knows that voice. The footsteps catch up to him all too quickly, and then there’s a heavy hand on his shoulder. Hot breath curdles the air right next to his ear.

“We got a bone to pick with you.” Of course he would, Johnny Miller and his lot. Only last month Jakes had put away the youngest of the clan on a number of B&E’s. Apparently, all was not forgiven, nor forgotten.

What happened in the next few minutes started with a kick to the back of his knees, and ended with him hauling himself upright on a lamppost. Everything in between is a blur of slap and kicks and punches; so many different hands on him he feels as though he may be torn apart. Had it been a one-on-one occurrence Jakes would have happily smashed the bastards face against a wall, but he found himself rather helpless at the hands of three hulking men, all with a grudge and a penchant for steel-toe caps.

Eventually he lands with a thud, head reeling and body singing with pain as the hands withdraw. He curls inwards on himself, groaning and then something wet lands on his cheek.

“Fuckin’ bastard,” Miller calls out, one of his lackeys landing one last kick to Jakes back and sending him face first into the curb. As they scatter into the night, Jakes lets out a ragged breath. Every part of him feels like it’s on fire, throbbing with pain at the slightest movement.

He knows he should get up, get himself to a car, the hospital, in the very least a phone box. But maybe in a minute, maybe when the world stops spinning. Maybe he’ll start by just getting himself upright. The minute his head leaves the ground, everything spins and it takes all his willpower not to throw up right there and then. Eventually, he manages to shift himself towards the wall where he can let himself rest his eyes, just for a moment.

The quiet of the night is broken only by his own laboured breaths; until along comes a set of rather fast footsteps. They stop suddenly a few feet away, and then.

“Jakes?” The sergeant’s turns his head towards the voice as quick as he can; a mistake he thinks, when the movement rolls his stomach again. He knows this voice too. For a second, he thinks it could be Miller and he tenses, until the footsteps approach lighter, walking with familiar strides. It’s  _ Morse _ ?

“Jakes?” Morse says again, his voice suddenly a lot closer. Jakes groans in response, too bloody tired to say much of anything. There’s a hand on his face suddenly, and he jerks his head back.

“Wha’ the hell you think you’re doin’?” he slurs.

“Someone's knocked the living daylights out of you, Jakes; I was checking your pulse.”

Jakes waves a hand, shifting backwards. The thought of more hands on him right now makes his heart pound and his breath short for some reason. He just hurts so much he wants to sleep. His head drops back against the wall, and the retort he had for Morse slips his mind as he feels himself falling away from it all.

Morse says something, and Jakes hums in agreement. If he agrees Morse might let him sleep. He hears Morse move, walk away, and he smiles. Some peace, finally. He lets his head fall to his chin, doesn’t fight his eyes as the fall closed and lets the darkness swallow up some of the pain.

For a moment it’s like he’s floating; not quite asleep, nor awake, and in no state to form any coherent thought. A lot of time could have passed, or none at all, but the moment shatters in a blinding instant as pain suddenly erupts in his side. He almost doubles over at the sudden onslaught, bleary eyes catching sight of Morse once again looming over him.

“Fuck, Morse what are y-” he hisses, before he chokes on his words and has to take some long, deep breaths to regain his composure. Morse speaks in that tight, strained voice he uses when he’s stressed.

“They stuck you with something, you’re bleeding. I’m putting pressure on it, unless  _ want  _ to bleed out in an alleyway?” He has a point, but still, it fucking hurts. Jakes hadn’t even noticed a knife, but it does explain why he’s so lightheaded. He groans at the touch, and he pretends not to hear the way Morse sucks in a breath. He doesn’t like it when Morse feels sorry for him, even if it  _ might  _ be warranted this time.

“M’fine,” he slurs. Morse laughs, short and cold.

“And I’m the chief inspector,” he lets one hand fall so he can press it to Jakes’ forehead, and then winces. Well that can’t be good. When he speaks next, it’s with a softer tone, that worries Jakes more than the sudden cold that’s swept through him.

“Just, stay awake alright? I’ve called for an ambulance, you just need to stay with me till then.” Jakes nods, or at least, he thinks he does.

“Jakes?” Alright, maybe he didn’t. He should answer Morse, reassure him, but his head feels so heavy. He feels himself slide further down the wall.

“Jakes, come on, sit up.” Morse slaps a hand none too lightly on his cheek. He should be done for assaulting a fellow officer. Jakes would write him up on that later, if he remembered.

“Jakes!” Somehow Morse sounds very, very far away.

“Peter?” That’s strange, Morse never calls him Peter. It’s nice though, he thought, very nice. It felt warm, comforting. Morse had such a nice voice, even if it was all echoey.

“Peter!”

* * *

He doesn’t remember much of the ambulance ride, nor of the hospital in the first few hours after his arrival. There’s some snippets here and there, doctors coming in and asking questions, nurses taking temperatures and filling forms. Being stitched and bandaged, tucked into a bed. The faces all blur into the background, except one. Morse. He is there the entire time.

The damage, in the end, isn’t too horrific. A few bruised ribs, a very black eye and a split lip. The gash on his side where they apparently slashed him thankfully hasn’t gone too deep. He’s bounced back from worse scrapes than these, it’s nothing that time, and a decent dose of antibiotics won’t eventually fix.

* * *

When the painkillers wear off and Jakes eventually wakes, Morse is the one to take a statement. He sits and listens with that stony look in his eye, his thinking face on. He takes careful notes and nods while Jakes rattles off the names of the men who assaulted him. There’s already a few patrol cars on the lookout for the men, and come morning Morse will no doubt be on the case, but right now it’s somehow become two thirty, and even Morse seems to be tiring.

He tucks his notebook away and sits back. They can file proper paperwork in the morning. He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then gives Jakes a small smile.

Jakes raises an eyebrow, waiting for Morse to explain whatever it is he finds about all this amusing.

“Something funny constable?” he snips, though there’s no real fire in it.

Morse shrugs resting his chin on his hand.

“Are we even now?”

“For what?”

“The shirts,” he says, leaning back to unbutton his jacket. As it falls open, Jakes pales a little at the sight of blood, splattered across Morse’s chest, dried into the cotton. Then he realises it’s all his.

“I seem to remember you insisted I dry-cleaned yours,” Morse gives him a smug look. “So this one’s on you,  _ Peter _ .”

He says it so deliberately, very much on purpose. Jakes shouldn’t rise to it, not such obvious bait, but he can’t help it.

“Since when did you call me Peter?”

Morse pretends to look offended.

“I thought you said you liked it. You said I have a nice voice, didn’t you?”

Jakes stomach drops and he feels his face warm. Of course, that’s the message Morse has decided to take from all this. He’d actually rather Morse laughed at him for getting jumped in an alley, if he was honest.

“I don’t recall,” he says, determinedly not looking at the way Morse is smiling at him. “I was delirious from blood loss, who knows what kind of stupid things I was coming up with.”

Morse watches him for a moment. Jakes watches back out the corner of his eye. They both say nothing. Then Morse goes to stand, and Jakes turns to catch his arm.

“Thanks. For the… for earlier.”

Morse nods, smile shifting into something more sincere.

“Don’t mention it,” he says. He pulls his jacket tight around him, hiding most of the bloodstains. He scoops up his keys and notebook. He jerks a thumb towards the door.

“Think I’m going to head out,” he says unnecessarily, it was quite clear what he was doing. It was as if he was dragging the goodbye out. “You’ll be alright, for tonight?”

“Yeah, I’m sure I’ll survive. Go get some sleep, Morse.”

At that, Morse smiles again then changes the weight on his feet but he still doesn’t leave. His hands comes up to pull on his ear, like he does when he’s thinking too hard.

“You too. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Jakes nods.

“Tomorrow.”

Morse is still dithering, and if he wasn’t so tired, Jakes would be more annoyed by it. As it is, it’s kind of endearing.

“You’ll need a lift, I guess.” Morse eventually says, looking at the floor now.

“I could stop by and get you? Run you home? If you wanted, that is.” Jakes lets him carry on maybe a little longer than he should, before taking pity. He smiles, and then decides to try something. If it goes wrong, he’ll blame the morphine.

“Sounds great,  _ Endeavour _ .”

Morse freezes, for just a second. Maybe Jakes did cross the line, he knows how much Morse despises his first name; and then Morse laughs.

“Suppose I deserved that one,” he says, finally moving towards the door. He catches himself on the doorframe before he leaves and throws Jakes one last look, all soft eyes, defences down. Jakes, already feeling the warm pull of sleep wash over him, waves. Morse waves back. Then he ducks out, and Jakes watches his back as he goes. He’s asleep before Morse has made it off the ward.

**Author's Note:**

> hope u all liked!!


End file.
